“You are very much mistaken, my friend,” said the stranger, “I do not like children. Is there no cabin or hut about here where I could rest for an hour or two, and change my clothes? I see that the wheel is off the carriage, so I cannot proceed to the tavern.”
“Yes, sure,” said Larry, “plenty of them, barring Jemmy Brady’s and mine. Jemmy has seven childer and I have five,—too much noise for your honour, I’m thinking, and the mud is almost as thick on the floor of my shanty as it is here, your honour—but if you’ll step a bit this way, I’ll take you to Sally M’Curdy’s.”
The gentleman asked if this Sally M’Curdy had any children. Larry said that she had not—that she was a lone woman. “She’s left with one grand-daughter,” said he, “Norah—you’ll may be have heard of little Norie, yer honour, for she is very smart at her latters, and can read and write too, and she’s very quiet and very mindful of her grandmother.”
Both Jemmy and Larry had the instinctive feeling, that this widow’s shanty bade fairer for comfort than any other in the range, and they were hastening forward to show the way and to prepare her for the guest, when he discovered that he had sprained his ancle, and could not move.
“What now is to be done,” said he, impatiently, “I cannot lift my foot from the ground, and the pain is becoming intolerable.”
“Och, hub-bub-boo,” said Larry, “what is better to be done than to carry your honour on our hands, crossed this fashion. I’ve carried a bigger man nor you in this way, in play even.” So he called lazy Jemmy to him, who scratched his head and sighed, to think of the heavy weight they were to carry. He crossed hands with Larry, the stranger seated himself, and in this awkward, singular way, with much vexation of spirit, he was taken to Sally M’Curdy’s shanty.
“Here is a good ould gentleman what’s lame,” said Larry, as they lifted him up a few steps into the neat little room—“he’s broke his foot any how, Mistress M’Curdy, and shall I run for a doctor, your honour, to set the leg?”
“My leg is not broken, my honest friend. If this good lady gives me leave to rest here all night, all that I shall require is, to have the boot cut off and my ancle bathed—it is only a sprain.”
“And is it I that will cut that good boot, your honour, I that am a shoemaker by trade, if the white boys at home would have let me earn a penny at it. Sure I know where the stitches are, and can’t I cut the thread?” So down Larry knelt, and with speed and skill, giving the stranger as little pain as possible, he cut through the seam, and took the boot from the swelled foot. Meantime Mrs. M’Curdy was not idle, she called her little grand-daughter, and immediately began to prepare supper, as the gentle clatter of cups in the next room indicated.
The stranger, whose name was Price, begged Jemmy to take his horse and dearborn to the next inn, and tell the landlord of his accident, and to say where he was to be found. He knew there was nothing better to be done than to put his foot in a tub of warm, salt water, and to remain as quiet as possible. Larry, whose good nature was a strong recommendation, promised to assist him in undressing, so that in half an hour after changing his clothes and keeping his foot in the tepid water, he felt so much easier that he was glad to hear that tea was ready. He was very willing to have the little tea table drawn close to his chair, and partake of the nice supper which his kind hostess had prepared for him.